Boston hates your car. Especially on Monday through Friday when you want to park for more than 2 hours. The cities of Boston, Cambridge, and Somerville would like to disrespectfully inform you that your weekday visits are inappropriate if they last longer than 2 hours. On weekends and on very select streets, your car will be graciously ignored. By the witching hour on Monday, your ass better be gone, punk.

And so you come to punk Boston.

You find magic parking spots where the meters have been removed, the street is only swept on Monday and you’ll be gone by Thursday, and because there are no meters, there is no sign limiting you to 2 hour parking.

You go with your two dancing friends and your friend’s dancing brother, an artifact of masculinity, to a motown dance club, only to find the line too long and the dancefloor full of people standing around in button-down oxford shirts. You’ll go next door to the crowded Middle East, where a three-man funk band is playing to a bar audience, and together the four of you will crack open the establishment to the raw power of the bump, grind, acrobatic and mime.

You ride on a cable-car train with your stilts and your friend and your friend’s stilts to work from a cafe downtown and drink tea that tastes like a hairy mountain yak, and no one suspects that in your small red bag you have a circus costume and blue and red makeup. If they think about you at all, they suspect you have drywall to tend to. At 3:30pm, you will punk their Public Garden.